The Fafnily 123 



ficent spectacle of happy-go-lucky fruitfulness. 

 They go their way, penniless and rej oicing. The 

 sun is hot and the earth is fertile. 



But how this picture pales before that of the 

 Lycosa, that incomparable gipsy whose brats 

 are numbered by the hundred ! And one and 

 all of them, from September to April, without 

 a moment's respite, find room upon the patient 

 creature's back, where they are content to lead 

 a tranquil life and to be carted about. 



The little ones are very good ; none moves, 

 none seeks a quarrel with his neighbours. 

 Clinging together, they form a continuous 

 drapery, a shaggy ulster under which the 

 mother becomes unrecognizable. Is it an 

 animal, a fluff of wool, a cluster of small seeds 

 fastened to one another? 'Tis impossible to 

 tell at the first glance. 



The equilibrium of this living blanket is not 

 so firm but that falls often occur, especially 

 when the mother climbs from indoors and 

 comes to the threshold to let the Httle ones 

 take the sun. The least brush against the 

 gallery unseats a part of the family. The 

 mishap is not serious. The Hen, fidgeting 



